Tuesday, August 26, 2014

It's been awhile since I've written, so before I dive into this blog, I might offer a bit of context: I wound up taking a whirlwind trip home to the States for three weeks at the end of July. The trip started off with a bang when a rocket hit near the airport and the American airlines shut down their Tel Aviv circuit. I spent two days on hold with the airlines to see if I'd actually be able to get out. I finally made it via Spain (Olé!) and went immediately from the desert and a war to a week at the lake with weenie roasts, Bingo (where I won big: $4.75), water skiing, and family that I hadn't seen for over five years.

From there, it was two weeks at home with more family time, doctors' appointments, feasting on Asheville's plethora of organic meats and ice cream flavors, wonderful friends, a frisbee tournament, and oh, working part-time from home with the dogs and the doorbells during that whole period.

When I returned home to Jerusalem, I immediately started work again and finished moving apartments - a process that had been turned into a tight-quartered circus of frustration and solidarity. I'd technically moved in before-hand, but joined forces (and space) with the departing roommate as we were both trying to figure out how to escape the country during the airport shutdown. I'm now living with a delightful British friend in the same neighborhood as before, with so many trees, functional internet from anywhere in the apartment, AND A PATIO! (The only downside is that I can no longer randomly take on a British accent without wondering if I might be offensive instead of just strange.)

I took on all of these life adventures with full force, and then spent last weekend kind of laying on the couch, alternating between a book and staring off into space (...and yet, couldn't seem to figure out what was wrong with me). So, that's what's new with me, and this blog is about the parallels that I've encountered as I bounced between my two homes.

HERE AND THERE

There, a far off rumbling is a thunderstorm trying to gauge
its ambition. You can set your watch by its timing, but it doesn't often telegraph its might.

Here, perhaps a truck shifting into second gear; perhaps a rocket
being intercepted and falling in defeated shrapnel on a neighboring village. The magnitude is a point of boastful pride, but its the timing that will catch you off guard.

There, ISIS is my friend’s bar – I watched his family turn
the dilapidated movie theater into an elegant restaurant and festive music
venue. I’d often walk over from my house for the best habanero cocktail I’ve
ever had, or important civic causes like bluegrass shows to raise money for
bike lanes and the esteem of self-impoverished hipsters.

Here, ISIS is also my neighbor (but they’re
not so big on the cocktails): the increasingly powerful Islamic state garnering support and beheading babies in Syria and northern Iraq. Are they the
ones taking advantage of the volatile times to launch a few friendly reminders
of their presence across the northern border?

There, everything feels exactly the same as as how I left it - like a dollhouse discovered in the attic.

Here, there
is a mild breeze whispering of change, and everyone is holding his breath to see which
way it will shift.

There, I dodge street performers and vagabonds in a bustling
downtown, waving to the occasional familiar face.

Here, I dodge between tall,
pointy hats of bishops, swiveling tourist cameras, and high-speed pita carts. I make my daily
greetings to vendors, beggars, and taxi drivers stationed along my route to
work.

There, I wait in line to be handed a menu, but I already
know what I want: the chocolate mousse stout cake and a liquid truffle – smoked
sea salt and maple of course.

Here, I stand in a gaggle at the sneeze glass (if
I’ve chosen carefully). There is no menu, but I already know that I want tabouleh, a carton of hummus, and some baba ganoush if they've got it.

There, the world around me seems certain, and I feel
restless.

Here, I feel a sense of calm despite the world’s uncertainty. I wish
I could understand why this paradox guides my course.

There, I worry if my brother will be safe walking down the
street in broad daylight. Will the police turn on him? Would strangers turn on
him?

Here, I worry if my neighbors will be safe walking down the street in
broad daylight. Will the police turn on them? Will strangers turn on them? I
sit in the comfort of my home, nestled down with a cup of coffee mixed with
guilt, compassion, and a spoonful of sugar; never doubting my own safety, I watch the borders
of my worlds blur. A protestor asks despondently of those holding the power and
pointing the guns: “Why won’t they walk with us? Why don’t they want better?” Is
there any difference between Ferguson, Missouri and Damascus Gate? And I can’t
remember if I’m here or there.

About Me

My name is Rachel Winner. In January 2012, a woman I truly admire looked me in the eye and called me an adventurer. Not wanting to be disrespectful, I didn’t argue or tell her that I am terrified of kayaking , I think camping is stupid (probably because my friends keep inviting me to go in December) and that I’d rather do laundry than cling to the side of a cliff. She explained that last year, I came to her saying “I’m moving to Mexico. I have no idea what I’m doing and if I can do it, but that’s my plan.” And I did. Nearly a year later, we are having the same conversation about my new writing business in North Carolina, WinnersWords. And yet, here I go. I started this blog when I moved to Mexico, and I’m keeping it up with life lessons, musings and observations – all of which make up my grand adventure.